Canyon Echoes

By Miranda Nading

"Grabs the reader’s attention from the very beginning and refuses to let go." -Reader's Favorite, Patricia Day

Some come to Yellowstone National Park to work, or to get closer to nature.

Others come to heal... or to hide.

For Gracie O’Dowdy, Canyon Village is the only place where she can pretend to be just like everyone else. She’s found a home... a family. When the people around her begin to die, she is forced to accept who – and what – she is.

After a close friend is murdered by the Canyon Killer, Ranger Hudson Foster will stop at nothing to get his pound of flesh. The deeper he digs, the more certain he becomes that the killer is none other than Gracie.

After all, she’s done it before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Nading
• Release date: Oct 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386554684

Miranda Nading

Miranda Nading is a multi-genre novelist and lives in Arkansas with her husband, father, and her two Pomchis. When she's not writing, she can be found reading one of her favorite authors, taking care of her orchids, and spending time with her family.

Book preview

But I don’t want to go among mad people, Alice remarked.

Oh, you can’t help that, said the Cat. We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.

How do you know I’m mad? said Alice.

You must be, said the Cat, or you wouldn’t have come here.

—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN for, and dedicated to, the Canyon Crew of Yellowstone National Park. There is nothing as satisfying as being surrounded by lunatics who encourage madness. Just remember, Dear Ladies...You asked for it.

1

Sulfur permeated everything . It burned her nose and turned the white snow around the caldron a diseased yellow. The ancient mud pot sucked the life out of the closest trees, leaving them brittle and gray. Even the most nourishing spring rains would not resurrect them.

Small paw prints left an intricate lacework of art around the valley, dipping into the Yellowstone River and looping across the hills. There was no sign yet of the Canyon icon, Scar Face. The twenty-six year old, often collared, often-photographed bear was more than likely wrestling his way from the depths of hibernation on Mount Washburn.

At this time of year, there was very little traffic. Workers on the Bull Crew were still plowing the roads, opening them up to the hordes of tourist that would be pouring in through the national park in June. The sound of an engine in the distance caught her attention and the woman wandered back over to Sulphur Caldron, her face turned to the road so she could see him coming.

Lester. The man rarely graced Canyon Village with his presence. He thought he was too good for the ghetto of Yellowstone, too good for Canyon and her children. That was changing. The oldest cabins—remnants of the misfits that had been rerouted from the Everglades without thought to the harsh northern Wyoming winters—had been burned to the ground the previous fall. Three new, magnificent, lodges were being built, bringing Canyon out of the shadows and into the race for best accommodations in the park.

Perhaps that was why he wanted to meet her here. Maybe he was finally acknowledging their place among the elite of Yellowstone. After all, Canyon Village contained, within its location, everything that made Yellowstone the geological and natural marvel that it was. All Lake had to offer was, well, a lake.

She doubted his reason for the meeting would prove to be some magnanimous gesture to heal the rift between their two locations. They had both been working in the park for more than a decade. Each had the area that they called home, but Lester had always looked down his nose at her and her crew. His was the location of the elite, those willing to pay four hundred dollars for one night of sleep, food and fun. The epicenter of which was nothing more impressive than a lake.

Still, it nagged at her that he wanted to meet her so far away from Canyon, away from any chance of being seen with her. She didn’t trust him, not as far as she could throw him, and Sulphur Caldron wasn’t the only thing that reeked of rotten eggs.

The sleek, silver Lexus disappeared from sight as it slid behind the ten-foot wall of dirty snow, which had been created when the roads were plowed. Turning to face the caldron as he parked, she listened for the sound of his boots as they broke through the crust of ice that covered the snow pack while he climbed up the path.

He stopped several feet behind her and sucked on his top front teeth. She cringed at the sound. Over the years, it had become the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard with her. It was something he did all the time, that noisy, wet sucking sound. It was worse still when he was thinking—a nasty habit that rarely panned out for him. Yet, for some reason the Powers That Be in Mammoth and Gardiner loved him.

Thank you for meeting me here. He punctuated his greeting with that abominable sucking sound.

Her jaw clenched. She forced it to relax, turned, and smiled. Anything for family, Lester. Although, I have to admit, this is kind of a strange place for it.

He took the last few steps to the railing and leaned on it like a man carrying a heavy load. His pudgy little cheeks were flushed from the cold and his glasses kept fogging up. He pulled them off, wiped them and slid them back on before speaking. It was a trick he used at manager’s meetings. He didn’t need time to think, time to put together what he wanted to say. It was just a show, an exhibition, of his self-importance.

She resisted the urge to snag them off his face and throw them into Sulphur Caldron. She waited, the Saint of Patience, until he was finished with his little demonstration and turned to her. I didn’t want you to hear about this at a manager’s meeting or get blindsided by the rumor mill. I’m leaving Lake and taking over Henry’s spot in personnel.

She didn’t think this rotund little man had any surprises in him. She had been wrong. Working your way up? Good for you. What does this have to do with me?

The entire Canyon Crew, actually.

She stiffened; the smile on her face felt like it was etched in stone. What are you talking about?

"It’s time for a change. That bunch of yours has been running Canyon long enough. With the new lodges going up, we need some people there that have a little experience with a higher level of clientele."

Like you? She was fuming and fought to keep from exploding on the little toad. You worked your way into Henry’s spot, just to kick us out and leave it wide open for you to come in and take over? Or Karen? Yes, I could see that. Get Karen in the Location Manager’s office and then you can say ‘Sorry, this job isn’t for me, but I’ll take the lodges’? And Silvia? You’ll slide her right into the Food and Beverage Manager’s place. Have your whole little family come in and take it over.

He bristled, straightened up and slapped his hand down on the railing. It’s not like that!

Bullshit! You did the same thing at Lake. A little nepotism, anyone? She had taken a step toward him, but he was so busy being full of himself, being invincible—the pompous little prick didn’t back away.

I came here to tell you this in person, to help you.

She took another step toward him, the heat building inside her, threatening to take her apart at the seams. "And what about our people? They chose Canyon for a reason, each and every one of them. This is their home, for God’s sake!"

You can’t stop this. It isn’t just me. You people have had your way too long. Tucked into your little corner like you own it! To hell with what Wilderness Resorts wants, to hell with the other locations, as long as you’re happy, right? It’s over. Just accept it and be glad they’re letting you stay in the park at all! As he spoke, Lester’s voice got higher, the vein in his forehead throbbing in time with his heart. He was nothing more than a little kid throwing a tantrum.

Spittle was flying out of his mouth, spattering her in the face as she drew closer. Her grip on the railing tightened, the winter-damaged wood groaned and splintered beneath her hand.

If it were up to me, he added as he turned to walk back to his car, I’d kick every one of you out of the park. He stopped to look over his shoulder. You’re nothing but trailer trash and vagabonds. There’s no place left for you here.

The chunk of railing beneath her hand snapped free. Her rage ripped loose in a scream that sent ravens bolting into the air with a thunderous rush of wings. He turned at the sound, understanding growing in his eyes even as he threw his hands up to protect himself. His right arm snapped beneath the fury of the first blow. The second caught him above the left eye, sending his glasses flying. A river of hot blood flowed from his scalp and melted the snow beneath him, turning the winter white powder to pink slush.

When she clubbed him a third time, it drove him to his knees. She stepped behind him, between him and the safety of his car. Desperate mewling filled the silent valley as he clawed through the ice, trying to escape another blow.

She let him crawl, delighted by the sight of him on his knees for a change. Her voice was calm, almost soothing. You can’t do this to us, Lester. I won’t let you.

He made it to the railing at the edge of the Caldron, grabbed for the lowest rung and tried to get his shaking legs back under him. Words, insensible and wet, fell from his lips. He raised one trembling hand in a feeble attempt to ward her off as she stepped closer.

"This is my home, Lester, my family. I won’t let anyone take that away from me."

She kicked him in the chest. It didn’t take much to shatter the railing. The old wood exploded in a shower of splinters behind him. He fought to keep his balance and failed, sliding down the muddy wall, pulling rocks and ice down with him, grabbing at anything he could to try to stop his mad descent.

His screams for help rang in the crystal air of the valley as he struggled to find a handhold in the muddy goop that lined the mud pot. The hydrogen sulfide vented by the pit hit his lungs and he began to cough, his cries for help losing power as he struggled to breathe.

Kicking to keep his feet from the acid rich soup at the bottom, he lost one loafer in the muddy wall. His pleas for mercy turned to screams of pain as the hot, toxic brew seeped through his Argyle socks and began stinging his flesh.

The woman stood at the shattered railing, watching him thrash, savoring his screams until the acidic mud slipped into his mouth, silencing him. Yet he still continued to fight, continued to claw at the sides of the pit, as if he still held on to the desperate hope that he would be able to escape.

When his struggles at last ceased, she threw the chunk of weather worn lumber into the mud, next to his lingering body. There was no way to be sure that Sulphur Caldron would drag his body into the depths like quicksand, no way to be sure they wouldn’t be able to recover him.

She turned, eyeing the bloody snow and shattered railing. Maybe it would snow again before anyone stumbled onto it. Maybe they would think a buffalo had gotten too close to the warmth the caldron offered and broke the railing before moving on. Some small part of her hoped that would not be the case. Let them find it, let them find him.

A smile touched her lips and her heart raced even as her breathing slowed.

She was euphoric.

She was free.

2

Home .

Most people passed their winters in their real stick and brick houses, in whatever state or country they called home. They looked forward to the end of each season with longing. Craved to, once again, be surrounded by friends and family, home and hearth.

For Gracie O’Dowdy, Canyon Village in Yellowstone National Park was home. Each spring was a homecoming to be celebrated, after having been gone far too long. Pre-season, in early May, was the best time of all. To her, it was the real Christmas. That special time when tourist were still trundling away at their ordered lives and a visit to the park was still far enough away to be no more than a whispered thought, just a wish, in the back of their minds.

Now was the time when the employees, the savages, made their way back into the Rockies to renew old friendships and explore well-worn trails, without the press of humanity that would follow all too soon. Now, they had the park—and all it had to offer—all to themselves.

Better still, Gracie’s job in maintenance allowed her to come in and set up a month before most of the others would start to arrive. Both loops of the employee RV camp had been fairly empty until the last few days. The week since she’d moved back in had been heaven, a time to reset her wiring and get back into a routine. For those precious weeks, Canyon and everything in it belonged to her.

Well, her and her fur-babies, as long as they stayed clear of the Bull Crew who worked to clear the parking lots and roads for spring. With thousands of square miles of woods and meadows, remaining anonymous was easy to do.

Gracie stopped to tighten the bindings on the old wicker snowshoes she had checked out from the recreation hall, before taking on a ridge that would lead her out of Hayden Valley. The smell of sulfur that drifted down from Sulphur Caldron was already beginning to thicken, tickling her nose and threatening her allergies.

She smiled and took a deep breath before the inevitable sneezing fit assaulted her. She’d take a few sneezes, and a daily regimen of Benadryl, to be here now, in this amazing place. It was her personal field of dreams, a place where even her demons were afraid to give voice and break the spell of the frozen valley.

She made her way to the ridge, her feet and legs quickly picking up a rolling duck walk that would keep snow from building up on the latticework of the shoes. Gracie climbed up the back side of Sulphur Caldron, working her way around the rim of the ridge and stepping into the acrid mist that shrouded the hot, boiling mud. She tucked her nose into the top of her jacket and moved as fast as she could to get out of the toxic fumes.

Scanning the tree line for a glimpse of the shrouded river, Gracie almost made it around to the far side when a spot of color, glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, grabbed her attention. She hesitated, and then moved through the mist to get a closer look.

The blood had faded as it melted the snow around it, turning a washed out pink, but there was no doubt as to what it was. Gracie froze, staring down at it as her snowshoes sank deeper into the stained slush.

Mommy?

The voice crept out of the darkest corners of her mind, the voice of a frightened and confused little girl. Gracie shook her head, slowly, from side to side as if not quite sure whether she was denying the existence of the blood or the thoughts that were trying to surface.

Don’t do this, she whispered. Not now, not here.

She felt numb. There was no fear, no thought about what that lack of fear meant. Still shaking her head, her eyes followed the icy trail to the railing of the caldron.

No, she insisted, yet her feet refused to heed her and moved forward of their own volition. Please, don’t do this.

She reached the railing but continued to stare straight ahead, into the mist. A silent tear, disconnected and apart from her, slid down her cheek. She wanted to back away, return to the winter jewel that was Hayden Valley and let the cold crisp air cleanse her on her way home.

Gracie’s head tilted forward as if a hinge had come loose, letting it drop inch by agonizing inch until she was looking at what had once been a man. His eyes were gone, the craters filled with a muddy soup that had the pH of battery acid. His lips were spread wide as if he had died screaming. The cavernous hole had filled with the yellow sludge that covered every inch of his body, slowly eating away at all that he had been.

Still there was no horror, no fear. There was only that numbing cold and the sound of the questioning child in the dark. She stepped back as her mind flashed on a small, fragile hand reaching up into the darkness, reaching toward a doorknob that should not be turned—should never be turned.

Mommy?

The world around her didn’t fade away, didn’t go dark, it simply no longer existed as she focused everything that was in her to stop that pale little hand from reaching the doorknob. When at last the voice grew still, when at last that fragile hand faded back to the corners of her mind where it belonged, Gracie fought her way back to the world.

It took a while to figure out where she was, or to even care. The cold disassociation that had enveloped her was being replaced by a biting cold that seeped into her bones. Tears had left icy trails on her cheeks.

When awareness was fully in place, Gracie found herself sitting in a snow bank, her knees pulled up tight to her chest and the Yellowstone River sweeping away from her as it headed toward the canyon. The sun was hanging like an unsympathetic light in the center of the sky and Hayden Valley spread out behind her.

How had she lost so much time? The long hike home was three-quarters of the way done and she didn’t remember a moment of it.

She shook her head and stood, only to sink up to mid-thigh in the snow. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her snowshoes. The field of snow lay unblemished in front of her. She twisted in the grip of the snow bank and found her tracks marking a pell-mell path across the valley. By the looks of it, she had been crawling on all fours by the time she’d gotten this far.

About to give up on the idea of tracking them down, she spotted a saucer shaped section of wicker sticking out of the snow on a small rise. She fought her way to it on her belly, swimming in the snow rather than trying to force her way through it. The other lay fifteen feet from there, near the river’s edge.

When she had them both locked into place, shivering from her snow bath, she followed the trail she’d left behind. It wasn’t real, she told the winter wood.

She didn’t expect an answer, but she got one. From the depths of her mind, closer to the surface than it had any right to be, a voice drifted up. You know it was.

She turned away from the tracks and began making her way toward the village. No, I don’t. It wasn’t real.

3

Hudson Foster could have gone all year without getting the call. Today of all days, the last thing he needed was to deal with death. Five years was a long time, but for some things, there were not enough years to dull the memory, or the pain. He preferred to take the anniversary of his wife’s death off. Stay in bed, with nothing to worry about except changing the channels on the TV and how many ice-cold beers remained in the fridge.

Deaths in Yellowstone were tragic, but they were also expected. Unfortunately. Every year tourists either took on hikes that were too strenuous for their abused tickers, or put themselves in bad situations, thinking those famous last words—‘I know what I’m doing’ or ‘just for a minute’. The season hadn’t even started yet, and this day of all days, should have been off-limits for another death.

He pulled onto the narrow shoulder of the road and walked the last hundred yards to Sulphur Caldron. Mike Garrett, a veteran ranger and Hudson’s mentor, was already there. Red and blue lights on the top of his truck strafed the snow blanketed trees. As he walked, he crisscrossed the road, looking for anything out of place. If the man died before the snow plows made their most recent pass, they’d never find evidence near the roadway.

He found a smooth patch of